I was Sara
by convexity
Summary: The names of the Bastard's Girls belonged to young northern women before they belonged to dogs. This isnt done. I might finish. May be triggering.
1. A beast in human skin

Sara felt both elation and a terrible cold fear as the sky in the east began to show signs of light. First, things simply became less black. The night was like pitch in the forest. A distant, cold slice of moon low in the sky offered no light. Long hours before she had stopped stumbling through the dark, terrified to fall down a bank or twist her ankle.

The alternative to moving was crouching like a frightened rabbit on the cold wet earth, hearing nothing but her own shallow breathing for what seemed like hours at a time. She thought sometimes she could see the forest around her, maybe straight above the sky was an inkier black than the foliage, but upon waking from a restless, short bout of sleep she imagined she could not see her own hand in front of her face and that the dark was sentient, liquid, closing in around her and filling her lungs.

She wanted to scream and never stop but her throat hurt and her voice was ragged, and part of her was petrified of making a sound, even a rustle in the leaves or snapping a twig.

He will find me, she thought. He is going to find me and he is going to kill me.

When the outline of the trees became blue against a deeper blue-black, she knew dawn was coming. She was shivering and a layer of dew graced every surface of the dense forest. She did not dare move until she could see better. Slowly the world paled and greyed, with the awakening of the birds which sounded so hopeful and cheery it seemed vulgar, a mockery of her. When she could see the paleness of her own cold limbs and the leaves and dirt and pine needles on her cold earth bed, she stood up.

Which way? She knew east from the soft hues coming through the trees, determined south and west and north from that. She had run north, had she not? If she could go east, and north, she would be headed for Karhold. She knew she would never make it so far on foot with no food. The thought made her throat burn with thirst and her stomach contract, aware of its own emptiness. How far to the road? How far to a village? A farm, a mill?

Sara tried to keep up a loping run, but as the morning wore on and urgency gave way to exhaustion and nothing but more forest, her pace slowed to a hurried walk as she picked through the underbrush and thickets.

She wished her brother were here. If her brother had been here to start with, none of this would have happened. She and Else were only at the market because their mother had been too ill at home, with the babe and all, and Darron was gone to fight Robb Stark's war, leaving them all alone.

She could see his laughing brown eyes, so solemn as he regarded her sadly. She handed him his mended boots she had labored over next to the fire. He regarded her efforts, his adams apple bobbing once in his throat. "This should keep the lions at bay."

"At least keep the snow out."

"Watch over mother, Sara. And Else too. She's not as strong as you. You have to watch for them now."

"Don't die in this stupid fight, Darron." Was all she could manage before the lump in her throat choked off her words.

"Just don't die. Come back."

If they hadn't been out there doing the day's selling, those men wouldn't have ever set their eyes on Else. Stupid Else, what was she doing wandering on the edge of the crowd like that, so oblivious to their leers? Her sister's tender innocence made a sob catch in her throat as she splashed carelessly through a small, cold creek. Maybe the dogs would lose her scent. She stopped, wiped tears and snot on her dirty, torn sleeve. She turned back and walked upstream a while, in the clear, frigid water, hoping to confuse the baying hounds that had nipped at her heels the day before when she had been set out to run.

Else was dead now. Because of her. If she had not reacted so violently to her sisters abduction, followed the men and clumsily, insanely attempted the murder of one of them, they might have let her live. They would have raped her, taken turns, over and over violated her, but she might have been allowed to live after, tossed aside like old bathwater. In their rage at her attack, they had slaughtered Else and taken Sara to the castle.

She'd spent a night in a cell, cold, alone, and sobbing. Her mother would be worried. Terrified. Her husband was dead, her only son off to fight the Lannisters and the south, her daughters never coming home with the food or the money, her mother's medicine. Who would light the fire, clean the pots, cook, mend and wash the clothes? But no, she could never go home. What would she tell her mother? How would Darren's face fall if he ever did return? Watch them, Sara. Watch them. I let her die, Darren. They murdered our little sister and I watched her die and I have the scars from their dirty fingernails where they held me back but I _watched her die_.

Else is dead. The words echoed around in her head, maddening. How could she be dead? The pulse in her wrist, the even sounds of her breath, her warmth had all been pressed against her sister last night as they slept, sharing warmth in one bed as they always did. How could she be dead?

Sara might have dreamed, but only after she had exhausted herself by screaming till she grew hoarse and pounding and clawing the wet stone walls of her tiny cell. No one responded to her screams. The nearest light was a distant glimmer, an orange reflection of light from a brazier around a corner. It burned all night but still no one ever came.

She had been confused when he had told her what was to become of her. How can I be punished for trying to stop the rape and murder of my little sister, a maid of eleven? Where is my justice? Who will be held accountable? Will your Lord father pay a pennance to take care of my mother and her son, my brother, an infant still at the breast? My elder brother is sworn to you, fighting under your banner for the North. Where is my justice?

How he had laughed.

He said he'd like to see if her cunt tasted as sour as her words but that he didn't want to spoil breaking his fast. Sara had never wanted to curse in someone's face as much as she did now, but self-preservation stayed her tongue. She had to go home. She had to take care of her family. One she had let down, but her baby brother needed her to come home.

The man whose face glimmered on the other side of long-rusted iron bars was fleshy, pocked, with dark hair like her own and a pale mouth turned into a grin. The torch he carried lit his features like a ghoul, and light shimmered from tiny rubies in his ears.

"Your sister must have been a sight. To make my men pull her out of a market like that, broad daylight? Usually they wait till evening, or go to a brothel where the filthy little urchins at least know how to use their tongue for something other than insolence."

Sara gritted her teeth. She was being mocked openly. She would get no justice. This was not Roose Bolton, who's reputation preceded him as a calculating, cold man, but not so unreasonable as his bastard. Sara had heard rumors about the Bastard of Bolton after her brother left and she began to spend more time in places she had never gone as a girl. Men talked outside of the inn, in the streets, at the markets, one foot perched on the wheel of a salt wagon and the other holding the rope of their bleating goats. You could hear things, if you learned to listen. What she had heard of Bolton's bastard made the hair on her neck stand up on end.

She had asked for no council. His men had murdered her sister and now he was personally standing in front of her cell, which she had been thrown in without so much as a preamble. These were not good signs, she sensed. Fear and anger tore inside her like dogs over a fresh carcass.

"My sister was selling eggs. As was I, m'lord." She said carefully.

"Lots of girls sell eggs. What made your sister so special?"

_Ask your men_, Sara did not dare say.

"Little slut must have been trying to haggle more coin out of those measly little frog eggs, no? Might she have slipped her skirts over her ankle, perhaps her knee even, let the men have a little taste? It was more than she bargained for, what she got, but no less than she deserved, I'll bet."

Sara did not point out that the majority of folk buying eggs were dirty children, mothers, old women. Surely employing this tactic would not improve the sale of eggs. Behind her unshared insolence, anger built up inside her, hot as a fire poker.

"In fact killing her so quickly was a mercy. From what I can make of it not every man even got a turn since you had to cause such a disturbance about it. I certainly was not offered a turn with your little harlot sister. I would have enjoyed teaching her a lesson or two about the ways of the world, and what happens when you cause trouble in it." his voice dropped dangerously low, and he reached a heavy hand through the wide iron, catching Sara by the back of the neck and drawing her close. Her heart pounded so in her chest he must have been able to hear it and her mind screamed run, but there was nowhere to go. His eyes, paler blue and colder than any she had remembered seeing, went to her mouth as his thumb caressed the top of her spinal column, fingers tangled in her hair. His breath smelled of mint and something sweet, and her stomach churned miserably.

"Since your sister is no doubt far too cold and stiff for my liking now, I suppose the elder wouldn't be too much of a disappointment. Do you show your ankles at men in the market too, sweetling? What else will you show me?"

Sara thought of her brother, how enraged he would be if he knew what happened to Else, and what might be about to happen to her. Her rising panic was only overshadowed by her blind rage.

Without ever deciding to, she spit in his face. He drew back quickly, pulling his arm back through the bars and wiping his left ice-blue eye. He drew his hand away, staring at his fingers like he could not believe what had happened.

What have I done? Surely he will kill me now. He will do other unspeakable things first, and then he will kill me. I will probably be glad for it by the time he is done. I am not strong enough for this. I cannot do this. Gods, just let-

He was laughing. Laughing? A shrill, evil sound.

"I like that in a maid. You are a wild one. A right little cunt. I will enjoy hunting you." The Bastard leaned in, face almost pressed to the bars, and whispered .

"And when I find you, I am going to fuck you until you lose consciousness. When you regain it, I am going t flay that creamy skin from your bones piece by piece until you can't scream any more. then I'll let my dogs finish you off. My girls love fresh meat, already peeled for them. You'll wish you had the voice and wits left to beg me for death, before I am done with you."

As his footsteps receded down the hallway, Sara stood numbly in the middle of her cell, and it was some time before she realized her fingernails had dug into her palms to draw blood, and she was shaking all over.

When they let her go, they made sure she was disoriented. Blindfolded, brought into the woods, droppedfrom horseback with her hands loosely tied, and then of course steered farther into the forest by the distant and then horribly closer baying of hounds.

When they finally found her, she was almost ready. She had run another day, convinced she had been going the right way until she realized for sure that she had been going in circles when she stumbled upon a grotesque looking fallen giant of a tree for the second time that afternoon. She had supressed the urge to scream, and kicked off a smooth white branch to form a sharp end. She kept that tucked in her dress, imagined how it would feel as she lodged it into a man's throat, the blood spattering over his wide eyes, soaking the flayed man on his chest.

The dogs found her first. The surrunded her, baying, growling, snarling, yapping. She tried to break their circle which did nothing but excite them, and they circled faster and closer and nipped at her heels until she took refuge in a tree. Even just getting five feet off the ground was exhausting, but she was safe from their teeth.

The dogs did not frighten her. What followed did.


	2. Shadow of the father

She expected the Bastard to ride up to her. His promises about her unpleasant death had been so personal, after all. It was another man who approached her on horseback, reigned in his prancing courser, dismounted. He apprached the tree, tall boots crunching the leaves underneath, and Sara readied her sharpened stick. Where was that vein in the throat that would bleed like a geiser if she could gouge it? She thought she saw a good spot to aim for, where his neck began to blacken with stubble. It looked soft, like the spot on the back of a baby's skull. Her mouth tasted like coin.

"Come down." The bearded man said calmly. Sara did not move, felt her fingers tightened on the handle of her branch.

"Lord Bolton wishes to see you."

"I know." Sara replied, voice trembling. "And he is no Lord."

The man flinched in distaste.

"Lord Roose." He ammended.

Sara almost lost her grip on the branch she was balancing on.

"What?" It was a ploy to get her down. To make her come easily. They would get her to climb down and take her to him, he was waiting in the clearing not far off. Some hunter he was, she thought. He should come get me himself. She wasn't very high up. The dogs couldnt reach her but one of the men could just pull her down by her feet.

"Where is Ramsay?"  
The man wrinkled his nose at her like she had desecrated a sept. A common woman like her using a Lord's first name._ At least I didn't say "the bastard", _she thought.

"He sent us after you." The bearded man nodded to the several others who were astride restless, bit-chomping horses, waiting fifteen or so yards back.

"He's not here?"

"No. Get down from there now, girl."

She eyed him.

"Before I pull you down and break your arm in the struggle."

When they called off the dogs she got down, another of the men rode forward, roughly patting her down, ripping her sharp stick from her (which sent a ripple of laughter through the other men). The man nodded at the bearded man, who had remounted his horse, and the man who patted her down steered her to his grey gelding and made her ride in front of him, hands tied in her lap.

They did take her back to the Dreadfort. She didn't see how she had any other choice, but still her heart pounded. She mistrusted the entire thing, and knew it was some ploy of Ramsay's. What would Roose want to do with her? What did he care of the playthings of his Bastard? They were of as much concern to him as the rats that the tomcats chased in the dark bowels of the castle.

His eyes were worse than his bastards. They were the same shape and color, that unnerving colorless glass. They were less vicious, but instead gave her the unsettling sense of some kind of omniscience.

"M'Lord." She said, and lowered her head, let her dirty soot colored hair hang and hide her face, which was burning not in a blush but in an odd, overwhelming sense of nakedness that she loathed. They said Roose Bolton was reasonable. That he had his own sense of fair when it came to his smallfolk. She did not know how much trouble she and her little sister had brought him, or how thin his patience ran.

Else, poor Else. The anger flared, strengthened her.

"Is your name Sara?" He asked, his voice soft, echoing in the mostly-empty council room. He sat behind a heavy wooden table, among a dozen empty high-backed chairs, and the only thing that caught the light of the two lit braziers was an elaborate tapestry behind him. She thought she could see flayed bodies of men, mouths open in eternal screams, being depicted throughout the needlework.

"Yes m'lord."

"Rise, girl, and approach. I need to look at you."

She did, and tried to steel herself from his rapacious gaze.

"Who is your father?"

"He is dead. His name was Darron, m'Lord. Of Winter Glenn. My brother, who is of the same name, fights under your banner with the Young Wolf for the North. My younger sister, Else..." She raised her gaze to look at Lord Bolton. "Was raped and killed the day before last by your son's men."

He did not flinch.

"I learned of this. It is.. regrettable. I extend my apologies. And my sympathy." His tone was without inflection. Sara ground her teeth.

"Your bastard let them do it. He's a vile-"

"You would do well to watch your tongue. You use the word bastard with such venom in your tone, and you do not know what you imply. You have bad blood. No, do not get so offended. You are a bristly thing. So unbecoming in a woman. Bad blood is common, and not a defining trait. It runs hot and affects the temper, the purity of the blood." He sighed softly and rose, smoothing his tunic with gloved hands.

"I have suspicions to confirm, but first, a job for you. Follow me."


End file.
